


Mortality

by LittleRedCosette



Category: Alexander (2004)
Genre: Ecbatana, Emotional Hurt, Grief/Mourning, Heartbreak, Hurt No Comfort, Loss, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-13
Updated: 2016-11-13
Packaged: 2018-08-30 18:41:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8544805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleRedCosette/pseuds/LittleRedCosette
Summary: The Chiliarch is dead, and the cold is unseasonable. Perhaps nothing will wake the world from it. The Chiliarch is dead, and perhaps, in this cold, so is the King.





	

The day is unseasonably cold. Then again, all days are unseasonably cold, now. The sun has lost its warmth, or perhaps it was never warm. Just some illusion brought about to hide how cold the world truly is. Some trick of the gods, the tomfoolery of nature.

No more.

The king has gathered himself into his arms as one gathers child.  He trembles, and the hairs on his bare arms rise frostily against the chill, though nothing can remove the ache that eats at his marrow. His shorn hair is uneven, unnatural, _unglorious_.

They steer clear of him, all of them, for fear of an outburst. Unpredictable, unprovoked.

Yet one general dares approach the king. _Philobasileus_ , they call him, and he accepts the name, has grown accustomed to it. Is, in fact, proud of it.

The guards let him in without hesitance. They know him, and they trust him, and perhaps they even _want_ him to go inside. There is a fearful sadness in their eyes that wasn't there before. He is allowed in and the one he seeks is outside, on a picturesque balcony that does not befit the sombre fog that surrounds the king where he stands.

 _Philobasileus_ pays little heed to this. He is not here for the view, or for the delight of the company.

"Your people are in mourning, Alexander."

If this is meant to please the king, the sentence would have been better left unsaid. The king visibly bristles.

"As they should be."

An unnecessary response to an unnecessary statement. Alexander doesn't care for niceties, or for etiquette, or for whatever else his general expects.

"Is that not enough?" Krateros asks delicately, even braces himself in case a fist flies. But the king's arms wrap tighter around himself, jutting jaw grinding against that unseasonable cold that has spread throughout Ecbatana, perhaps throughout the world.

"Nothing will ever be enough again. Enough would imply contentment."

His voice is cracked, and he doesn't know whether to be ashamed of the tears that cling to his lashes or not. He's lost, and this _cold_! He can't bear this cold a second longer.

But he will. He'll bear it.

"I'm sorry, Alexander." Krateros speaks, as ever, genuinely. His dark eyes search the king's face with an intensity that would, at another time, be considered almost rude.

Not today. Not now.

"You are as sorry as you can be, Krateros." A rather generous answer, all things considered. He could be angry, but instead he understands. It doesn't happen often. A sarcastic, scathing remark bubbles up the general's throat and rests on his lips, but he swallows it back down. He doesn't want to encourage that flying fist.

"And that is not quite enough?"

The king doesn't need to shake his head for Krateros to know he is right, and his lips twitch sadly.

 Alexander can feel everything threatening to cave into ruin. The world; the city; his rule; his ribcage. It's so close to shattering, and the cold is squeezing strength from it all.

"My Lord," the general rarely begins sentences in such a way over a private matter, but he's aware of his impertinence and hopes desperately not to be executed personally by the king for his spoken thoughts. "May I speak plainly?"

"You always have done before." The blond is like a wolf, a tired alpha male addressing the youngest pup in the pack. Ironic, almost, as Krateros was a man the day this tired alpha male was ripped, screaming and bloody into the world.

"He was just a man."

The muscles twitch in the shoulder, he wraps his arms all the more tightly and swallows - swallow the cold! Chill down throat to stomach pit until he's frozen. And he doesn't reply at first, is grateful when the general waits. He will reply. He will speak those cold, cold words.

"I had forgotten that."

Cracked words uttered from cracked lips. And he doesn't wish to speak again. He wishes to scream into the cold air and yet he can't. And he is forced to hear what no man should hear, he is sure of it.

"Your people need a king, your Majesty."

Why is he being so polite? The king doesn't know.

"We need you, Alexander!" Krateros implores, begs, pleads. It's not enough, surely, a particularly desperate tone of voice. Words and thoughts cannot heal this wound, cannot bridge this valley. "We need you to guide us!" So desperate. He's angrier than he means to be. Perhaps it's the cold, this angry, bitter cold. It's turning his head, his thoughts. "And if I must speak ill of the dead to show you this then so be it!" He's shouting now, but the cold, cold wind is catching his words, dampening them with sharp ice. "He was just a man!" Wind swallows screams whole, the bastard. "But you! You are so much more. We need you!"

The king's eyes are cold. His stare is cold and Krateros shrinks from it, but does not take back his words. The words that this cold wind surely dragged from his lips.

"Please," the older man asks, the word ghosting his tongue, his mouth, his teeth. "Please."

A shake of the hand sends him away.

He leaves, thankful for his life, fearing retribution. He's so scared he doesn't see the dark flicker of light in the king's eyes.

And the king turns his back on the cold. Turns away from the cold city and the cold wind that whistles its cold tune.

He sits in his room. He holds a book in his hands, staring and wondering and considering. And the tears that flow are hot against his cold face, and the sobs that shudder his chest heat up his cold body. And _The Iliad_ slips from between his fingers, clatters to the floor.

He picks it up, the dust lovingly wiped from its spine. The book lies open in his hand.

_Achilles mourned his father, then again Patroclus, and their mourning stirred the house._

"Just a man."

The words are soft, and the love is so great it dispels that coldness of their reality. Nonetheless, he shakes his head.

No, not just a man.

**Author's Note:**

> "Achilles mourned his father, then again Patroclus, and their mourning stirred the house." ~ Homer; The Iliad


End file.
